


back in the summer

by michelllejones



Series: endless song [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, based off my own tumblr post yes im a selfish narcissist, eddie's growing out his hair, not the hammock scene but the hammock is present, pining richie is like in love noises, warning: TENDER
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-09-09
Packaged: 2020-10-12 22:53:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20572265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michelllejones/pseuds/michelllejones
Summary: “What?” Eddie snaps, feels immediately defensive. “Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something on my face?” Self consciously, he buries his nose into his comic book. Glares at Richie over the brim, frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.He waits for Richie to take the bait, provide some half clever quip that will catapult them into some sort of argument, as is customary. But the taunt never comes. Instead, he reaches forward—with a look in his eyes that if Eddie didn’t know any better would let himself think is almost fond—takes a curl in between gentle fingers and says, “your hair’s longer,” in a tone so tender it is almost unrecognizable.





	back in the summer

**Author's Note:**

> i have spent the last forty-eight hours thinking about pining richie. and what a pining richie would think about eddie's longer, curlier hair. i made a stupid [post](https://michelllejones.tumblr.com/post/187581976591/some-time-after-the-events-of-that-summer-eddie). and then i turned it into a short stupid fic as a way of coping. i will never be taking criticism. 
> 
> enjoy <3
> 
> *lyrics in title from i adore you by molly burch

For as long as Eddie can remember, his hair has been short. 

From a young age, his mother was adamant that he kept it short. _“Long hair is more susceptible to collecting bacteria. Bacteria attracts lice. Do you want to get lice, Eddie?"_ she would say with a pointed finger and a raised brow. The obvious answer was _no_—of course he didn’t want bacteria or lice! So, as soon as his hair began to flop against his forehead, or curl at the nape of his neck, his mother was quick to usher him into the downstairs bathroom, trimming scissors and a spray bottle in hand. 

And Eddie obliged. It never occurred to him to protest it. In truth, he didn’t mind having short hair. If anything, it made sense. Was better that way. Easier. Cleaner. 

Richie and Bill were constantly flipping strands of hair away from their eyes, running a hand through it to smooth it back. Eddie was grateful he didn’t have to deal with it. 

But that was before. Before—for lack of a better term—shit hit the fan. 

Before the leper, before Neibolt, before he broke his arm, before his mother put him on house arrest for no other reason than to ruin his summer vacation. Before Greta told him the truth about his pills and advertently sent him and his life as he had always known it for a fucking loop, before somehow, some way, he rallied whatever leftover courage he had and used it to confront his mother about her transgressions only seconds after getting the call that Bev had been taken and it was up to the rest of them to save her. Before he chucked his stupid fucking fanny pack so far, with so much coercion that he nearly ripped his arm right from its socket. Before they fought _It_ in the cistern and won—maybe they hadn’t, really, but it sure as shit felt like a victory—and for a single, fleeting moment, had felt larger than life. 

The feeling, however, didn’t last; after he said his ‘goodbye’’s and biked in the opposite direction, back toward the very thing he had run from, he was left feeling small. Fearful of what awaited him at home, Eddie entered his house—drenched in vomit and sludge and things he decided were better unknown—with a hollow chest and a dry throat. Afraid of confronting his mother—terrified, really—because the adrenaline wasn’t there to keep him standing upright, anymore; he knew that if she told him to do something he would obey, he would be compliant. 

Except, the order never came. When he walked inside, silence was all that greeted him. A rarity in the Kaspbrak household, it made him uneasy; the TV was always on, whether anyone was there to watch it or not. Never off, only occasionally muted. Silence could only mean one thing… 

Careful to be quiet, in case—he trembled as he thought it—in case there was something around the corner, in case something or someone was waiting for him, in case he was being drawn into a trap set specially for him, he had peaked his head into the living room. And into the darkness, called out for his mother; once, twice, three times, only to be met by the very thing he feared: complete and utter, empty silence. 

Willing his legs to move, he carried himself back into the hall. Eyes wide and unblinking, he stared at the staircase. Gripping the banister, he placed a wary foot on the first step. “Ma? You home?” he called to the landing, lungs paralyzed, heartbeat in his throat, tremor in his bones. When there was nothing, he climbed the steps, wincing with each and every creak. Whether he was more afraid of seeing his mother or seeing _something else,_ he wasn’t sure. He supposed he didn't much like the thought of seeing anything right now. 

Upstairs, his mother’s bedroom door was shut, but the light he could see through the cracks told him that she was in there. Hiding from him or shutting him out or both. But she was in there, and maybe it shouldn’t have, but it made him feel better; to know that he wasn’t alone. 

The fear that had captivated his body and soul faded and was inevitably replaced by exhaustion; he took a shower and got ready for bed and fell asleep in broad daylight. 

He was sure that he would be in for it the next morning. But it seemed that his mother had completely forgotten about their fight from the previous day; the only proof that it had happened at all was the cautious look in her eyes when she asked where his fanny pack was. 

Until then, he had forgotten about the stupid thing entirely, forgotten that he had chucked it into the weeds behind the house on Neibolt street, that he threw it so aggressively that his shoulder had been sore afterward. 

“It’s at Bill’s, Mama. Sorry. I’ll get it later,” he had replied to her, automatically, his voice so robotic that he hardly recognized it. 

Later, he biked back to that Godforsaken crackhead house and with his shoulders drawn in and his head kept down low, retrieved the very thing he had sought freedom from, because it was the only thing he recognized from _before._ Because it was, somehow, an artifact that stood as evidence that he had had a life prior to _It._ That things, as he had known them, then, were normal, once. At least, a normal that he knew. Even if none of it—the pills or the asthma or the alleged illnesses and allergies and precautions—had never been normal. 

And he feels guilty for it, he does. Because getting rid of it had been his way of rebelling. His way of saying “Fuck you” to his mother and to anyone who had ever made him small or weak; but not having it secured around his waist left him feeling naked. Exposed. Vulnerable.

So, he finds another way to defy his mother. 

At first, he doesn’t think of it as that. To Eddie, it is a way to solidify his newfound independence from her; he doesn’t need her to keep him out of harm’s way (because he already walked headfirst along its path), doesn’t need her to coddle him, and evidently, he doesn’t need her to cut his hair like he is some sort of toddler, either. In a few months, he will be fourteen; and having your mother cut your hair at fourteen is more or less humiliating. At fourteen, he is much too cool for her trimming scissors and Ivy League haircuts. 

So his hair gets longer; longer than he thinks it ever has been. It’s fuller, curlier, and long enough that it starts to do the very thing his mother never let it—flops against his forehead, curls at the root and over his ears. It isn’t a big deal, necessarily, and he doesn’t think anyone has noticed, because why would they? It’s just hair, after all. 

But then, legs tangled and comics in hand, sat in the hammock because they managed to convince the rest that if they are both occupying it, they get an extra ten minutes (“Ten minutes per person, Stanley,” Eddie iterated, “ten times two is twenty, numb nuts. Do the math! We get twenty minutes in the hammock!”), Eddie catches Richie looking at him…funny. Watching. Staring. The look on his face ignites a strange feeling within him, burns in the pit of his stomach. 

It makes his skin crawl.

“What?” Eddie snaps, feels immediately defensive. “Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something on my face?” Self consciously, he buries his nose into his comic book. Glares at Richie over the brim, frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He waits for Richie to take the bait, provide some half clever quip that will catapult them into some sort of argument, as is customary. But the taunt never comes. Instead, he reaches forward—with a look in his eyes that if Eddie didn’t know any better would let himself think is almost fond—takes a curl in between gentle fingers and says, “your hair’s longer,” in a tone so tender it is almost unrecognizable. 

And Eddie stops, breath caught in his throat, because that is certainly not something he was expecting Richie to say, let alone notice. It leaves him momentarily paralyzed. Paused. 

Wordlessly, he manages a slight nod. A starry look in his eyes as they hold on Richie’s. 

Then, Richie smiles at him. Guiltlessly. Kindly. _Softly_. Lips relaxed, facial features mellow around a heavy gaze. He smiles that stupid, sweet smile and murmurs—words meant just for him—, “Looks good on you.” And leaves it at that. Goes right back to his comic, like everything is perfectly normal.

Like that is something he usually says to Eddie. Like complimenting one another is normal. Like his words didn't just put Eddie’s heart in his throat or a stammer in his voice as he tries and fails to stutter out the syllables of a meek “th-thank you.” Like Eddie is just supposed to accept his out of fucking left field _compliment_ and pretend that it means nothing. 

And maybe it does. Maybe it means nothing. But Eddie can’t seem to get past it; the look on Richie’s face, his gentle touch, his tender words. Not seconds after he has said it, not that afternoon as he bikes home, or later that night when he stops to glance at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He reaches up, brushes his fingers against the same strand Richie had grazed just hours before—_looks good on you_—and thinks he’ll never cut his hair short again.

**Author's Note:**

> there u go. U R WELCOME for giving u soft content instead of CANON COMPLIANCY WHERE PEOPLE ARE D**D. sometimes...ignorance IS bliss. 
> 
> if im feeling particularly selfish maybe i'll write something similar in richie's pov. lmk if that's something y'all would be interested in.
> 
> as always! thank u! i lov u all! tell me what u thought! drop a kudos! ignore canon! <3


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